


It's a Break, Not a Vacation

by dancinbutterfly



Series: A Californian Werewolf in New York [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Art, Banter, Boyfriends, Caretaking, Commitment, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Family, Grief/Mourning, High School, Kissing, Lacrosse, Loss, Love, M/M, Outsiders references FTW, Photography, Playful Sex, Sequel, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, Sheriff Stilinski is a superhero, This generation has the weirdest crushes, Top!Stiles, Wanna see a Teen Wolf joke? Greenberg., bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/512899">A Californian Werewolf In New York</a>. The anniversary of the fire sneaks up on Derek. So he follows his instinct and leaves Manhattan to get to the one thing he really needs to survive the worst week of the year, Stiles. Unfortunately, that puts him in Beacon Hills - the worst place he could possibly be at the worst possible time. Yeah, Derek didn't really think this through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape From Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [A California Werewolf in New York](http://archiveofourown.org/works/512899). You DO need to read that first to understand this. This started as a reaction to the absolute worst Thanksgiving of my life and, as is always the case with this particular universe, grew legs.
> 
> Thanks to 1001cranes and ariadne83 for betaing. They're magical.

Zhang is standing over the final print of Derek's latest project with his hands on his hips, frowning. He is the picture of every gay stereotype Derek has ever seen on TV from his perfectly styled hair to his slimming blue Ermenegildo Zegna suit to his shiny nine-hundred dollar patent-leather loafers and he is not happy.

"Honey, do you want an honest opinion or a first glance?"

Derek shrugs. "I'll take honesty."

Zhang winces, looking reticent. "Are you sure? Because we've been friends a long time and-"

"Zhang, I'm a big boy. I can handle negativity."

"Right. Okay, listen, the work is good, alright, it's just- and there's not a gentle way to put this - it looks like you pulled the entire series out of some Russian archival footage of the liberation of Poland. You say this is in Brooklyn but looking at this, my guess would've been maybe something from London during the blitz?" he declares, waving a hand at the over exposed shot of hollowed out apartment complex. 

The windows are burned out like eyes lined in smudged kohl. Kyla had pointed him to it. Her girlfriend Marie's construction company was due to demolish it in a month.

"You said you're always looking for new locations," Marie said with one of her little half smiles. "I just thought you should know before we take it down." 

Derek had just meant to take a look because in the months since Stiles left and he took that first picture on the subway, he's been focusing on people. He likes people. He likes families actually. He isn't creepy, doesn't follow people into their homes or anything, but he'll stand at one traffic signal for hours and photograph the families, trying to find units in the crowd where he's all alone. 

It makes him feel better about life. The beautiful moments he manages to catch, every now and then, are becoming bonuses rather than the goal as he scrapes together something resembling a career.

He'd ended up spending the last four days doing nothing but taking pictures in and around the building, which had been ruined when the building manager set it on fire for the insurance money. Six people died and the manager was in jail but the building was still there, had been for years while the city real estate gods fought over the property rights. Now there were less than six weeks before demolition. Derek had gone out on a whim and come back with, well, all this.

"It's sad," Zhang says, pouting. "Are you sad? Come here, sweetheart, let Auntie Zhang kiss it better." Zhang is incredibly tall, just under six-four and has arms for days. Derek would have to use a little bit of his wolf to get away, which is how he ends up in a hug that smells like Chanel No. 5 and has Zhang's very pointy chin digging into his hairline. "Why are you sad, darling?"

"I am not sad." 

"Of course you are. Is it because you had to spend Valentine's Day without Cutie McJailbait? Not that I'm judging."

"No." And he's not. Valentine's Day could've been lonely. Stiles' dad was adamant that Stiles couldn't come to New York again until it was time to move out for college. Derek was had given up offering to fly to California around Christmas because Stiles' response was always no because “You hate Beacon Hills and I don't want you to be somewhere you hate because of me, no, shut up, I mean it.” With the situation the way it was, it probably should've been but it wasn't. It had been a mostly average night, with the addition of some truly excellent Skype sex with toys ordered from Adamandeve.com on the same day. The deal was that neither of them were allowed to open their gift alone so they opened them together, at the same time, and then used them specifically for Valentine's Day. Stiles' plan, naturally. He was excellent at the long distance thing, which was not surprising at all. It involved planning and details and research on alternative methods of, well, almost everything and Stiles was made for that shit. Which was why Derek had not protested his idea of sex gifts. Seemed like a decent plan in theory and turned out to be a fucking great one in practice. The toy Derek got Stiles vibrated at fifteen different settings. Stiles' gift for him involved leather and a certain restriction of mobility that Derek could do with more of, were Stiles actually there to do something with it. 

So, yes. Valentine's Day was good. Best of all, it checked off another holiday down before Stiles came to New York for college. Next year, the Valentine's Day sex would be in person and thinking about that had taken absolutely everything to a whole new level. 

But now they were in the first week of March and - and Derek had spent the better part of a week staring at a burned out six-storey building, filling SD card after SD card with pictures, and it hadn't connected. Because he's an idiot and also because he used to have Laura to keep track of things like big days and why he did the things he did when they were based out of pure emotional reaction.

"I lost my family in a fire. It'll be eight years ago, next week," Derek says, giving Zhang a gentle push, shocked at the sound of the words leaving his mouth. This time, even last year, he isn't sure he'd have been able to say it. Now it comes out easy, with only the barest hint of that glass and gravel feeling in his throat. "I think I just got a little...fixated."

"Ah." Zhang agrees, with no further comment. 

This is probably why Derek let him stay so close for all these years, because despite how little they should have in common, Zhang understands what so many of the people Derek values most know: the importance of quiet moments.

Zhang brushes Derek's shoulders off, picking non-existent lint off the green pull-over he's wearing and carries on like nothing's happened. "Okay, well, don't throw any of it away. Not one shot, you hear me? These actually _are_ your best work to date, skill wise. When you die and your stuff becomes sought after by the great and the good and they put you in museums with Ansel Adams and Dorthea Lange - they'll point at this series and say, 'This was the beginning of his landscape studies' and I actually have a thing coming up in July that I think two or three from this series could work for but for what I'm doing this month? Honey - just no. I can't use any of this for the upcoming show. It's not the right tone.” He bites his lip for a second then says, his voice careful for the first time in the conversation, “Also, this isn't where your heart is in your art, I don't think. Is it?"

“It's really not,” Derek agrees, giving Zhang a nod and half of a smile, which is as much as he can manage. It seems to be enough, which is good because Zhang needs reassurance when he critiques even though he does it multiple times a day and has done for years. Derek understands - both the impulse and the impression Zhang's gotten from this work.

What he's made this time around is different and to be honest, he doesn't really like it either. It feels too much like Beacon Hills right before he left. He kind of wants to take it out to the black tar on the roof and set it on fire but that would be pointless. He's already sent digital copies to Zhang. It's not like that would do anything but get rid of this particular hard copy.

The meeting does clear up one thing: he needs to get out of here. Right now. The crawling feeling under his skin is familiar and he knows exactly what to do with it. It's easier to address this time because he's coming back but the response is the same - go home, shove some shit in a bag, call a cab, and go straight to the airport. 

Turns out? People can still buy tickets at the airport, if the credit card being used has a big enough balance on it. Derek doesn't sleep on the flight. Instead he watches the episode he missed of Dexter and as much of Arrow as he can (because Stiles has been begging him to watch it since it aired like the geek he is) on the little on-demand video screen in the back of the chair in front him for the six hours it takes for them to touch down in California.

When he turns on his phone, he has seventeen text messages and two voice mail messages. All of them are from Stiles. 

He doesn't open any of them. Usually they talk before Stiles goes to school because of the time difference, but the meeting this morning plus the flight screwed that pooch. He booked a rental car using the crappy on-flight wifi so if he doesn't waste time calling Stiles back and just goes straight to pick it up, he can get to Beacon Hills High School before classes let out in forty-five minutes. He's sort of counting on seeing Stiles' reaction to that.

A Nissan Ultima is not as impressive as the Camaro but pulling up at the front steps of the school and leaning against the door has the same impact it did years ago. He's still older, too old to be at the high school, still impressive and it's powerful. He actually enjoys it this time, the way the little high schoolers side-eye him and whisper about who he could be and why he's here. 

Then Derek hears "Holy shit, Derek?" and there he is. There's his Stiles. Suddenly Derek's whole world feels about five hundred times better than it did two seconds ago.

Stiles is staring at him, his mouth hanging open with a literal slack jaw. Derek can't help but smile at him. He's like a cartoon character sometimes. It's ridiculous. It's adorable. He missed it so fucking much he didn't even realize that he could barely breathe before. He only knows because it's so much easier now.

Scott, Boyd, and Lydia are with him. They're staring too. Their eyes get wider when Derek says, "Hey Stiles," and opens his arms.

Stiles' backpack lands at Lydia's feet with a thud and Stiles seems to fly down the stairs. Then he throws himself at Derek but that's okay. Derek was expecting it, hoping for it, so he's ready; he catches Stiles when he hits, is braced when arms wind around his neck and legs wrap around his waist and warm full lips take his mouth in one of those soul-sucking kisses that his memory never manages to fully reproduce. He takes a step back so that his ass hits the car and then slides a hand up so that he can brace Stiles' back and yes, yes this. He needed this, his Stiles, his love, his person, his mate, his most important thing. He can almost feel the world righting itself under his feet as Stiles kisses him, loosening his grip on Derek's neck so that he can slide his fingers into Derek's hair instead until they have to pull away to breathe or die and even then, it's a close call.

Stiles pushes their foreheads together and nuzzles the side of his nose against Derek's. "Fuck, I'm so glad to see you but I thought- What are you doing here? Derek. We said- Is everything okay?" He digs his fingernails into Derek's scalp in a way that goes straight to his dick. Stiles is over eighteen now. What they are doing isn't technically illegal anymore, but they are in public and this is still a _school_.

"Yeah. It's fine. I just really wanted- needed to see you."

"Are you okay?" Stiles asks, pulling back farther so that he can study Derek's face with those sharp brown eyes. Derek doesn't answer, just lets Stiles look for himself and decide based on whatever he sees. Derek doesn't know what that is, exactly, but it gets him another kiss - slow and gentle, open mouth and just past chaste.

"Bilinski, what the hell are you doing?" a nasal voice demands. Cutting right through the mood. "You can't climb the rope in gym class but this? _This_ you can manage? Get down from him before I call the dean."

Stiles makes an unhappy little sound as he unhooks his legs from the small of Derek's back and slides down, but doesn't unwind his arms from around Derek's neck. "Better, Coach?" he asks from where his head is resting on Derek's shoulder.

Finstock frowns at him. Or at least Derek thinks he's frowning. It's hard to tell with the guy and always has been. "Marginally. I'm still deeply disturbed to the core of my very soul. Holy crap, Derek Hale? Is that you?"

Derek can't help but smile. Finstock's eyes bug out like one of those squeezie stress toys. "Yeah."

"I haven't seen you since you had braces and were a skinny swim dork. Did you eat a football team since you left? Because if you didn't, shame on you for not joining the lacrosse team. We could've used a decent player back when you were in school. Seriously, I'd've been happy with just one and you seem like you probably have decent hand-eye coordination. You caught that idiot so you probably could've caught a ball in a net. It's a reasonable assumption."

Derek clears his throat. "With all due respect Coach, don't call my boyfriend an idiot."

"Who, Bilinski? He doesn't take that personally. He knows everyone here's an idiot. It's a requirement for enrollment in Beacon Hills High. If you have a problem, take that up with the Superintendent. I know I have."

Derek and Stiles both stare at him. Finstock stares back then shrugs. "Get the dry humping out of the parking lot, kids, okay? For all our sakes."

"That is a great plan, Coach. I'm going to do just that. He will be removed from the property post haste." 

"Good. Go about your business, students and mid-twenties guys who really shouldn't be making out with students but are anyway and whom I'm going to choose to ignore because I'm officially done with work for the day." Finstock gives a little salute and saunters, off hands in his pockets, muttering to himself. 

Scott, Boyd and Lydia are with them by the time Finstock is gone. They're all big eyes and slightly gaping mouths. Well, Boyd and Lydia are. Scott is shuffling forward and clearing his throat every few feet. "Uh, Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"What's going on?"

"My boyfriend is in town. Duh. Here." He tosses Scott the keys to the Jeep. Then his fingers stroke the hair at the back of Derek's neck and Derek does not hum in approval. He doesn't, because he's in public and that would be rude. "Drive my car to your place? I'll get it later after-" 

"Okay, dude, whoa," Scott says holding up a hand. "Have fun. Seriously, I'm psyched for you but I read your text history once. That was really all I need to know about, you know," he gestures madly through the air at the two of them, “For the rest of my life. I'm educated, I swear.”

"Go," Lydia says with a wave of her hand. "Go. Have fun. Pack meeting's on Friday night. Stiles needs to be there, Derek. We'll understand if you can't be but he does."

She flips her hair and is gone a second later. Derek frowns as she walks away, taking Boyd with her and heading off towards Jackson and the rest of the pack. Scott gives them both a wide smile, the puppy dog look that Derek actually forgot over the last two years. 

"Have a good night, Stiles," he says, meaning it. His sweet sincerity shines out of him like light. He's a good kid, genuinely good, and yeah, Derek had forgotten that about Scott too. It's amazing, really, the things that can slip away in two years.

When they're all gone, Stiles backs Derek up against the car again. He smiles and dips his head down to nip at Derek's upper lip. "Take me back to my place. My dad doesn't get off work until seven so we can totally have sex until he gets home.That's if we don't wreck from the seriously awesome road head I'm going to give you."

Derek laughs, started and slightly choked. Yeah. Coming to find Stiles was a good plan for how to survive this week. He can tell.

~*~*~

Later, Derek is going to notice the thin trickles of blood that are snaking down his inner wrist from where his claws are digging into his own forearms, the claws on his feet digging into his calves where they wrap around Stiles' lower back. He might even freak out about it because blood and sex aren't supposed to go together, at least not without consent. Stiles likes to remind him of little things like that whenever he goes into babble mode about Sex Safety Dos and Don'ts. 

Right now there's just Stiles rocking slowly inside him, sliding over his prostate without doing anything more than teasing and melting his bones. He's breathing hot against Derek's cheek in short pants as he pushes that little bit deeper. "Your fangs are showing," he mumbles, grinning down at him. 

Derek tries to smile back. He does. Stiles' smile is completely infectious even mid-fuck but it ends up less of a smile and more of an open-mouthed throaty moan thing that makes Stiles laugh and kiss at the underside of his jaw.

"I love you," Stiles says into to his skin. "I just- fuck. You taste like freaking recycled air, mini-pretzels, and sweat. It's awful and I still can't stop. Seriously, Derek, I can't fucking deal with how much I love you."

Derek lifts himself up so that he can press his chest tight against Stiles'. They say the words all the time in IMs, on the phone, and via Skype. They finish emails with it and text-speak it at each other but this is different. He can taste and feel the truth in Stiles' heartbeat through his skin like this. It's like he was floating off the planet and suddenly he's grounded back to Earth and that's better than the sex, which is huge because the sex is pretty fucking amazing.

He lets go of his own arms and feels the wounds he made on himself heal instantly as he cups the back of Stiles neck. "Yes. God, me too, Stiles. Will you fuck me harder?" he breathes. "Stiles, need you."

"Yeah," Stiles grits out. "You mentioned that."

He drops his legs from around Stiles' back and plants them firmly on the bed so he can push up into Stiles' thrusts. "Still true."

"Well that's not cool," Stiles declares with a dopey grin. "We'll have to fix that, I guess." Then he's letting Derek pull him down into a crushing kiss. 

There's no room to do anything else but rut together and kiss after that. Thought is simply not an option. Derek is hollowed out and there's just Stiles in all the newly empty places, until the friction of their bodies grinding together and the slide of Stiles inside Derek is too much and Derek is coming, fists clenched so that his claws dig into his own palms, and his lip pulled between his teeth so that his own mouth is the only thing damaged by his fangs. 

Stiles is lying on top of him, sticky and propped up on one arm, when he comes back to himself. He wipes his thumb across Derek's mouth and sighs, "How long post-orgasm are we supposed to wait before you tell me what's going on?" Stiles asks, holding up his thumb. "Because there's a lot of blood involved for this to be no big deal."

His tongue darts out and snakes around Stiles' finger. He cleans the blood off and drops back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. There are stickers up there - not just glow-in-the-dark stars but Star Wars and comic book characters. "You have Starscream on your ceiling."

"Uh, yeah," Stiles declares as he flops down on his stomach. He digs his chin into Derek's shoulder so he can look up into his face, his arm draped across his chest. It's been months since they've been like this, Stiles' fragile human arm anchoring him to the bed. It feels like fucking heaven to Derek. 

"And I'm the idiot here because...?"

"Because Megatron was an abusive ass who never appreciated a good thing when he had it and Starscream deserved better. "

"I was an Optimus Prime guy." Derek shrugs and works his arm behind his head. "Something about the voice."

Stiles laughs and curls into him. It feels like they're picking up exactly where they left off in September, like nothing's changed at all. "Yeah? If you were a Transformer, he'd have been your alpha, right?"

Derek says nothing. He can feel his cheeks go hot and is powerless to stop the heat from rushing down his neck and across his chest where, fuck Stiles can feel it too. He's up like a shot, staring down at Derek's no-doubt flushed face. "Oh my god."

"Shut up, Stiles."

"Oh. My. God."

"Seriously. Shut up. I was eleven."

Stiles is laughing, the kind of uncontrollable giggles that involve snorting and complete lack of muscle control and oh lord, Derek can even smell tears. He's going to kill him. He really is. 

"Fuck you."

"No. Holy crap. Optimus Prime. Seriously. That is fantastic. This is why I love you. I mean lots of reasons but right now? Optimus Prime. Oh my god." He manages to push himself up on a shaky arm and wipe the laughter-induced tears off his face and grin down at Derek. "Don't sweat it, man. Seriously. I had a thing for Nala from the Lion King. Our generation is just fucked up."

"Nala is a cat."

"No, she's a lioness. Oliver is a cat."

"You couldn't have at least been into Balto?"

"Dude, shut up." Stiles says, grinning. "And don't think you've distracted me. You did not fly across the country to the unhappiest place on earth to tell me about the weird cartoon characters you crushed on when you were a tween. Come on, Derek. Talk to me."

Derek reaches up with his right hand and pushes slick hair back from Stiles forehead. It's soft and damp under his fingers. He traces lines of sweat down Stiles' face to his chin. "It'll be eight years on Monday," he says finally, keeping his eyes fixed on Stiles' wide brown eyes. 

"Since the fire. Jesus, Derek, you could've said. I'd - I don't know. I'd've done something. Come here." Derek doesn't know where here is supposed to be but apparently it's with Stiles' arms wrapped around his head like the second coming of the teddy bear. It's smothering, actually, and his nose is smooshed just under Stiles' sternum but he doesn't protest. This is why he came, after all. 

Stiles is brilliant and very good at reading people; he also has a slight tendency to overreact when people he cares about are hurting but Derek loves him just like that. Derek loves him and he loves Derek back and he's _alive_. Stiles is alive and this week, Derek needs be able to see that. Up close. He needs to be able to hear him breathing and his heart beating from rooms or feet or yards away and know that his world hasn't ended again. Just for the next few days. Then he can go back to Manhattan and be a normal werewolf again. Really. He can.

"This is good," Derek says though its muffled by all the Stiles' skin.

"Til my dad gets home," Stiles agrees. "Then we have to go down and explain to him why you're going to be staying over for a week. And then we can deal upgrading this week from unbearable to freaking awesome - Stiles Stilinski Style."

"I'm suddenly terrified."

"That's probably a good instinct," Stiles agrees cheerfully, dropping a kiss onto Derek's hair on the very top of his head. "Now we can either nap or we can try and have sex again in the twenty minutes before my dad gets home. Your week, your choice."

Derek wraps his body around Stiles, clinging like a particularly ferocious barnacle. They're sticky and gross and he can tell by smell that the condom they used didn't make it all the way to the trashcan but he had a long flight followed but a long fuck. A nap is good, especially if he's going to be officially meeting his boyfriends dad for the first time without handcuffs involves. He makes a huffing noise that earns him another kiss on the crown on of his head.

"I like the nap plan too. Just keep the wolf senses on a little okay? I locked the door but a heads up would still be good."

"You got it." Derek promises and lets Stiles' slightly-too-fast ADHD heartbeat lull him into a comfortable doze. Derek doesn't think about how much he's missed Stiles because he's here now. Instead he basks in how good Stiles feels and smells and still tastes on his tongue and smiles as he dozes with Stiles’ arms wrapped around his head.


	2. All So Very High School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 1001cranes for the beta on this chapter. :D

Derek stays upstairs and eavesdrops as Stiles babbles at his father for a solid thirty minutes. He goes on and on about why his boyfriend, the very same one that the Sheriff himself has in fact Skyped with on a few memorable occassions when Stiles had to run out for one reason or another, is in from out of town, in his room; how he's eighteen and a legal adult; how his dad has to let him stay and in his room because if he makes Derek stay at a hotel Stiles will go with him, seriously he will; and his family died this week, Dad, in ‘06; its like his version of the third week in July, Dad, please; and I love him; I told you I love him and you'll like him; you will Dad; promise. Derek doesn't smile but he does marvel at how Stiles seems to barely need to breathe to explain all of this. It does explain his ability to give head, though. 

"He's listening isn't he," the sheriff says, with a sigh. "Because he's one of the wolves, right? Or is he something else? It's hard to keep track."

"Um, yeah he's a wolf, so probably."

"Then come on down, young man."

Derek takes the stairs two at a time and finds Stiles pacing and Sheriff Stilinski on the couch. He's blank-faced but his eyes are bright. "You know, you're the reason why I had to upgrade to the unlimited plan."

"Hey Sheriff Stilinski," Derek mumbles. His palms are sweating and his fingers are shaking but this is fine. He's not in handcuffs this time. There's no Alphas howling at the edge of town ready to tear their wolrd down. Now this man isn't acting as sheriff and charging him for his sister's murder or wondering how he's connected to any of the gore Deucalion and his pack carried out in the forrest just beyond the city limits. He's just his boyfriend's father. Nothing scary there. 

"Nice to see you in person again, Derek. So, Stiles tells me you two have been official for, what's it been, six months?"

"Yes, sir."

"Remind me again, after your last birthday you're, what, what? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-four."

"Your intentions?"

"Commitment at whatever level Stiles is willing to let me have," Derek says because it's true. He says that because 'living together, marriage, forever' are a bit much for a guy who is still a teenager. He wants Stiles to want that. He thinks Stiles does, or at least that he will one day. 

See, that's the thing. Derek's twenty-four and he's ready. He's so ready that sometimes he feels like he's vibrating with the idea of the rest of his life starting nownownow but Stiles is only eighteen. He's just getting started. Derek won't begrudge him that. He loves him way the hell too much.

It's just that Derek's not sure how long he's supposed to wait, how many months or years he's supposed to sit on the always/mine/yours/us feeling he’s had ever since that first morning Stiles rolled out of his bed to interview with Columbia and pulled on Derek's shirt. He's figuring it out as he goes and is pretty sure blurting that out in front of the only parent of said person during introductions is not the time or place.

Sheriff Stilinski nods. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"You're not lying to me and I'm not deaf. The two of you talk each other’s ears off every night on the computer and on my cell minutes, about seventy percent of which I can hear for the record Stiles. I don't think you're going anywhere. I know a young man like you could be somewhere else on a Saturday night in Manhattan and instead you're parked online with Stiles."

Derek shrugs. "Where else would I want to be?"

That is the right answer because it earns him an actual smile. "Beats me. So a week huh?" Derek nods and the Sheriff continues. "I understand having a rough patch in the year. We lost Stiles' mom in July more than ten years ago but it’s still a bit of a, uh, hurdle. For what it's worth, I worked the fire and we did all we could. I'm sorry about your loss, son."

Derek says nothing. There's no answer to that. The Sheriff understands and changes tracks quickly.

"You're only here for the week and you make my kid stupidly happy so I guess you can stay. But as for the R-rated stuff," he sighs and crosses his arms. "School nights are school nights. Stiles has homework and he can't be late to class or cut out early. Ever."

"That is so reasonable. Isn't my dad super reasonable, Derek?"

Derek grits his teeth. One day, he will get Stiles back for this. Somehow. It may take years in the making and he may need Oz to help him plan it but oh, his vengeance will be great. "Yes, sir. Super duper."

The sheriff rolls his eyes in a move Derek now knows is genetically predisposed in Stilinski men. "Lights out at ten. And that means sleeping."

Stiles grins, jumps forward to give his dad a bone crushing hug, then drags Derek up the stairs before Derek can manage a polite "Thank you, sir." He shoves Derek back on his unmade bed and climbs him, shucking his shirt in the process. 

"Okay so, dad's home which means no sex because oh my god he could hear us. Worse, all three of us would _know_ that he could hear us," he explains as he tugs Derek's shirt off too and tosses it to the floor. "We would all irreparably damaged by that; so sexy times are to be saved for when he's out and sleeping but you're here," he says and gets this dopey grin on his face. It's so bright that Derek has to pause and smile back at this half-dressed wonder of a young man for a whole ten seconds he gets before he's attacked again.

"So we're going to be enjoying all of the skin." His clever fingers are already working at Derek's jeans. He hadn't bothered to put his belt back on when the Sheriff got home. "You're within touching distance right now. It's killing me. I spend months and months with you across the country and like, aside from the sex, I just want to touch all your skin as often as possible while you're here. Jesus, Derek." 

He ducks his head and presses his cheek against Derek's chest. He leaves it there for a second, then adds a hand, his palm flat against the slope of Derek's stomach. It could be sexual but it's not. It's warm and gentle and Stiles says, "You're here," in a tone that's all fucking wonder. 

Derek cups the back of Stiles bare neck and understands. "Yeah. I'm here." He squeezes gently, a reinforcement of the statement, then says, "And I love you," in a rush that feels like it bursts out of him. Derek cannot get over how good it feels to be allowed to just say that when it's what he's feeling. He can say the words, out loud, and it's okay. He's at that stage with Stiles where it's not weird or awkward to tell him. He doesn't have to sit on it or stew in it if he doesn't want to he can just tell his boyfriend that he loves him. 

In point of fact, Derek's at a place in his life where can say what he's thinking. It's true of all his relationships, not just with Stiles but with Zhang, with Kyla and Maria, and has been since day one with Oz. That probably shouldn't be a big deal but it is. He can say what's on his mind when it crosses it without feeling like an idiot, an ass, or an asshole and being with Stiles is teaching him how to do that more comfortably, without wanting to fall into a hole into the center of the world or attack whoever made him feel awkward with teeth and fangs dripping with venom. 

For Stiles, he makes himself keep going, saying exactly what he's feeling and thinking, right now. Words have always mattered to him. He'll take them as they're meant. "I couldn't remember if I'd said that yet, you know, since I got here. But I do. And, um, thank you. For this. For everything. For you."

Stiles tilts his head back and grins. He trails a line of kisses from the underside of Derek's jaw back down to where he was lounging, a slow and sweet gesture meant to acknowledge more than arouse. When he's settled again, he asks "So, pants?"

"I'm against them."

"Mm. Me too."

They shuffle out of their pants in an awkward mess of limbs. Stiles falls off the bed, coming up grinning like he didn’t just hit the ground with a painful sounding thud. It's early yet but they ate and showered (together) before the Sheriff got home so they're done for the night. They crawl under the covers of Stiles’s narrow bed in only their underwear and talk.

In a lot of ways, it's like every other night - on the phone or on Skype. They talk about their day or what they watched on TV or read or the same long-term argument over the ending of Lost (Derek still likes it, Stiles still hates it - Derek wants to be fighting over it when they're seventy), only now they can run their hands over shoulders, arms, chests, necks, cheekbones, lips, noses, ears, and foreheads. 

"I fell asleep like this the first time we talked," Derek admits as he settles down. "I left my phone on. I didn't want to miss anything in case you said something and ended up just listening to you breathing until I drifted off."

"When?" Stiles asks on a cracking yawn.

"Ages ago. Before you made me get that stupid fucking jellyfish lamp."

"Oh." That gets him a quick closed mouth kiss. "Well, you can sleep. I'll wake you up if it’s important."

"M'kay. I missed sleeping with you."

"Oh my god, me too," Stiles sighs, cuddling closer. "So much. Maybe more than the sex. It's like... I can't..." He can hear the floundering in Stiles voice even though he's still, for once. 

"Yeah." Derek agrees. His bed's been empty ever since and that was after only having Stiles in it for a few days. 

"Yeah. So what do you want to do this week?"

"Besides hide?" Derek asks, knowing that Stiles wont let him do that. Stiles is all about confrontation. "I don’t know. I was mostly just thinking about getting here, to you. There wasn’t much planning past that."

"While I'm flattered," And Stiles is; he nuzzles the skin closest to his nose just to prove this point. "We have a week. We can't just have sex. I mean, we could. But I have school and I can only wheedle my way out of Monday and maybe Friday and I can’t bring you with me. Well, I could bring you to lacrosse practice probably."

"I can sit on the bench with Lydia and Allison."

Stiles laughs. "Oh my god, yes. Do that. Please. And bring a tape recorder? Because I want whatever happens when the three of you are sitting together saved for posterity. Or blackmail. Either is good. Seriously though. You hopefully won’t be back in California for awhile, so hit me with a Beacon Hills wish list and we'll make it happen this week."

"Now?" 

"Nah. Sleep now. You can think about it while I'm at school. Password for the guest login on my computer is your name by the way, all lowercase, no spaces."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, well, I took a cue from Scott. And it's my guest account. My password and account is impenetrable."

Derek quirks an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Try it, Mr. Called-Me-At-2-In-The-Morning-Because-He-Couldn't-Work-A-Kindle."

"That was an exceptional circumstance."

"You are not tech savvy. You're dusty books and quill and ink on parchment."

"I've never even seen an actual quill that works like that."

Stiles gives him a sleepy grin. "Well okay then. Birthday present. Done. You are very easy to shop for."

"You're very strange." Derek observes and then, "I love you - anyway and also because of."

"The strange?"

"Mhm."

"Me too. Anyway and because of your strange." He giggles. "Like wanting to fuck Optimus Prime."

Derek groans and pushes his face into Stiles shoulder. He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut but Stiles' chattiness is as infectious as Oz's zen. He reaches up and covers Stiles’ face with his hand. "Seriously, shut up."

"In the immortal words of Taylor Swift," Stiles says into his palm, "Never, ever, ever." Then he licks over the lifeline and Derek jerks his hand away. Not because it’s gross like it used to be when his sisters or cousins did it but because it's late, Stiles’ dad is down the hall and, well, a few more licks like that and he'd be ready to wrap his fist around Stiles' cock wouldn't he?

"Come over here and go to sleep," Derek grumbles, tugging Stiles tight against his chest and Stiles goes with a small humming sound. They tangle together, reminding Derek again of how much fucking better his world is when Stiles is in it. There's a pang in his chest when thinks of how badly he wants this, just this, forever, but he ignores it. He has Stiles, right here right now, so why is he worrying? 

It's the week. It's Beacon Hills. It's the smells of imagined ash and real wolves in the air. It's a hundred things that he can ignore by breathing in Stiles’ smell and wrapping his arms a little tighter around Stiles as he falls asleep.

~*~*~

Derek sleeps most of the day. He doesn't normally do that. Werewolves don't need that much sleep but the whole room smells like Stiles, especially the bed, and it loosens and unlocks strains Derek didn't even realize he was carrying. He curls up in Stiles’ sheets until after two and then rolls out of bed and fishes clean underwear and pants out of his bag. 

Stiles took about a dozen of Derek's shirts with him when he left in September and he's been wearing them. Derek finds one of them, unwashed but still relatively clean, flung over the back of a chair and pulls it on over his head. It's grey and soft and smells like Stiles. He feels almost ready to face the world, which is as good as it's going to get for him, really.

He walks across town and ends up at the lacrosse field about half an hour into practice. Stiles spots him, and stops in a skirmish to grin and wave just long enough to get tackled to the ground. Derek winces and shakes his head because Stiles is laughing when he clambers to his feet. 

He never played contact sports as a kid. "You have to be careful with humans, Derek. One slip that's all it takes," his father always told him. "You could hurt someone."

That had always been the most important thing. Humans were delicate and causing them pain worse then being exposed. The ability to ease suffering was one of the most valuable, the hardest to master, and Derek forgot sometimes what it used to be like when that was what mattered most - before survival moved to the forefront. Watching the wolves he made playing side by side with humans, safely and happily, reminds him of before and that's good. He couldn't even remember it before he moved back to New York.

He climbs the bleachers awkwardly, hands in his pockets, even though he could leap to where Lydia and Allison are sitting. He takes a seat one row below them, basic pack instincts kicking in. You stay lower than the senior members and don’t assume you have an invitation to the conversation. The girls are both humans but they run with wolves and some things translate when it comes to conflict avoidance, Derek's learned. These people were in his life for such a relatively short time and even then they were never really his pack. 

The smells of wolfsbane, popcorn, soda, latex, pencil shavings, and ink, and different brands of soaps, perfumes, shampoos and conditioners on both girls hit him like a wave. He's used to being dialed down in the city. There's so much of everything that he keeps everything low unless it’s the new moon and he's on a run with Oz and the rest of the Garcetti pack. Being back in Beacon Hills, the hyper-vigilence had come back and he hadn't even realized it until the smell of the girls hit him like a punch in the sinuses. He tries to smile back but he's terrible with most people, especially _these people_ so he doesn’t know how well it goes over. 

Allison smiles back at him, awkward but genuine and gives him a little wave. Her long skilled fingers peak out through the cut-off tips of gloves. "Hey. What're you doing here?" If Lydia had asked it would be an interrogation but he and Allison... They'd worked things out sometime between Jackson's resurrection and Derek putting himself directly between her and the vicious claws on Kali's feet. She'd gotten him across the chest but if she'd hit Allison at that same height she'd have bled out from a throat wound in seconds. 

That battle hadn't fixed anything but Allison had allowed it to be a start. By the time he'd left Beacon Hills after the Alpha pack was dealt with, they'd been they'd moved from her trying to kill him all the way back to complete civility. Time, apparently, had healed the last of those wounds. Well, time and, if Stiles were to be believe, a lot of long and really messy conversations with Scott that triggered a series of break-ups and make-ups that were bordering on legendary.

"Stiles invited me," he says lamely. 

Allison's smile grows wider, the stiltedness fading from her expression. "Oh, yeah! He made co-captain this year. He's better at strategy than Scott."

"But not better than Jackson," Lydia cuts in.

"Anyway," Allison tries again. "Stiles said you're a photographer now. That's so cool. I tried photography for like, fifteen minutes once." She laughs and tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I was awful but I saw some of your pieces on that gallery website? The composition of the crosswalk one? So amazing."

Derek smiles at her and ducks his head. "Thanks. I really liked shooting that series."

"Yeah, you can tell," Allison agrees. "I'm sorry we missed your first show. Stiles spent the whole pack meeting showing us every five minutes when the gallery posted something new to instagram."

Zhang was addicted to instagram. He called it the Paris Hilton of photography, so naturally, he cleaved to it with adoration bordering on obsession. Considering the number of times he has flashed his phone camera at Derek, lens flare eyes and all, Derek tries to stay far away from it. "It was filled shaky photos like Cloverfield, I bet," Derek muses. 

Allison laughs and nods. "Still, it looked like a great party. Stiles said you sold a bunch of photos, especially for a first show."

"A few. Enough to feel like I wasn't some idiot with a Polaroid."

"Can people even buy Polaroid cameras anymore?" Lydia muses, dragging her gaze from the field to fix on him. He wishes she hadn't as soon as she does. She's giving him the same critical look he seems to recall her giving absolutely everyone at least once per encounter. "Are you wearing Stiles’ shirt?"

"Lydia," Allison says, punctuating her name with a little sigh in the back of her throat. 

Derek just shrugs. "It's my shirt."

Both of them stare at him with wide eyes. Lydia purses her lips. He can smell her vanilla lipgloss and remembers that Stiles used to love her. He respects her, has since she stared down a monstrous Jackson without flinching. She's brave and she's got the kind of emotional depth that Derek can understand needing to hide.

Then he thinks about Stiles thinking about her, naked, and can't help but dislike her. It's just a little, though. And only in that completely irrational yet totally justified by her being the ex-crush of his current boyfriend. Zhang actually made a line graph about this sort of thing back when they were in college for a skit he performed for a Gay Straight Alliance fundraiser. So it's totally legitimate.

"So, Stiles has been wearing your shirt all year?" Lydia asks.

"Uh, I guess." Yes, yes he has, Derek doesn't say, because he's mine, because I'm his. 

"That's so sweet," Allison declares. "But now it's no wonder why it didn't fit him."

"Most of Stiles clothes don’t fit him. It's like he's allergic to tailoring." Lydia gives Derek a _look_. "Promise me that while you're here you'll give him a talk about his wardrobe? Honestly, it's a travesty. He's finally filled out so that he's worth dressing well yet he refuses to do so." She shakes her head sadly. "Such a waste."

"You should probably talk to him about the whole pack thing too," Allison adds before Derek can even think of responding. Her tone is gentle but her eyes are wide and worried, almost afraid. "I mean, what he's going to do about that next year? I know he got into Columbia but that does kind of make things weird doesn't it?"

She's got his attention now. "I'm sorry?"

"He's kind of important," Lydia agrees. "To all of us. Peter's pretty lax, but still, you know you don't fuck with pack. With Stiles going away for school, that's something that's going to have to be hashed out. It's actually really good you came here. It'd be harder to manage that chat on speaker phone."

Right. Derek has fallen into a fucking alternate dimension where Lydia Martin is lecturing him about pack dynamics. In this upside-down twilight zone, Peter and the puppies seem to have a fucking say on Stiles' future when the only people who should have any rights to that are Stiles' and the Sheriff. Hell, Derek knows that his own voice on the subject was just a request, a plea that he's grateful has been met with a resounding yes. 

The presumption of ownership in Lydia's voice, the agreement he saw reflected in Allison's eyes as she spoke made cold, familiar anger surge up in Derek. Packs could function like that. Some did but not the Hales. They'd never been that kind of family. The idea that Peter was warping them into that and Derek had left them to it, made him furious - mostly at himself.

Derek casts his eyes onto the field where the team is running drills. He focuses his hearing on Stiles' heartbeat to calm himself down. It doesn't really help. 

"Water break!" Finstock yells. "Last thing I need is another one of you morons passing out on me. Really Greenberg? How hard is it to take a drink? Gerbils can do it, why not you?"

The boys are on their way to the bleachers, water bottles in hand and Stiles is taking the bleacher seats like they're stairs and ends up on top of Derek in a move that would've knocked over anyone human. He's drenched in sweat and when he wraps his arms around Derek's neck, Derek maybe licks a little of the salt-Stiles taste off the underside of his jaw, as far away from the girls' line of sight as he can before kissing him. 

Still panting from the workout, Stiles both tastes and smells almost like he does after sex - raw, animal, pure. Derek could fuck him right here, rip off his uniform, jump onto the ground to rut mindlessly with him in the grass and dirt. Yeah. Stiles wants him to make a wish list? Making that fantasy reality - in the woods somewhere, in the dark, with the crunch of leaves under them - is officially on his. 

"How awesome was I?" Stiles demands when he pulls back to breathe. "I'm a tough, sexy jock right?"

"Totally." Derek wants to slide his hands up under the back of Stiles’ shirt and see if he's slick with sweat there too so yes, absolutely sexy. He settles with fisting his hands in the uniform instead. 

"I'm pretty sure all this unresolved sexual tension is helping my game," Stiles declares, nipping at his ear. Derek holds back a groan behind clenched teeth. "All that aggression and frustration's good for a contact sport."

"Yeah. Tension relief could be good for your aim," he manages. He feels like he never did as a teenager - hanging out on the bleachers dating a senior with a varsity letter. The very idea makes him smile into Stiles' shoulder.

"Next time," Stiles agrees. He bites one more time, one the shell of Derek’s ear before pulling back and beaming. "That would be a super great theory to try Thursday."

"Yo, Bilinski," Coach Finstock shouts. "Quickie's over!"

Stiles nearly trips over his own legs falling backwards over the bleaches. Derek catches him, because what is the point of being this strong and able to move that fast if he can’t protect his boyfriend from cracking his head open? Only Allison and Lydia notice because he doesn't go for a full out rescue, just catches Stiles by the wrist and jerking him back upright. 

He watches Stiles dust himself off while keeping his fingers on the bare skin of his wrists. "I think you're supposed to save the tackling for the field," Derek says, ignoring the natural chemical fear responses that nearly falling thing set off that Stiles knows he can pick up and giving him a smile, one of his real ones. 

"I'll show you tackling." 

His smile stretches into a grin. He must look like an idiot. He doesn't care on any level because Stiles has never tried to tackle him before. There's so many possibilities. "I look forward to seeing you try."

"Oh my god," Lydia groans, "If you two flirt any harder, the sky will crack open and candy-hearts and condoms will fall from the heavens and it'll be your fault."

Stiles’ eyes go wide at that. "That would be awesome."

"And at least marginally useful," Derek agrees which gets him another of those looks from the girls.

"I feel like just saying that sort of thing is tempting fate," Allison says. "Knowing Beacon Hills it'd be a rain of silicone lubricant and kissing teddy bears turn into monsters at night, just like Gremlins only fluffier and more deadly."

Stiles gives her a wounded look. "You have no romance in your soul."

She also has a terrifying dark streak laced with a sharp sense of humor. She is an Argent, after all. Their women are like knives wrapped in rich cloths - velvet, silk, or cashmere. Having that with him rather than against him is a beautiful and powerful and Derek finds himself remembering the things that he liked about her before, and a couple new things he can see with the clarity of distance.

"Excuse me, idiot?" Coach Finstock demands and Derek feels like Lydia looks - wistfully defeated, when Stiles actually turns in response to that. "Get your ass on the field or you'll be running drills until your ridiculously large age gap with Johnny Weissmuller over there is no longer edgy. Move!"

Allison frowns as she watches Stiles take off towards Finstock, then glances up at Derek. "He thinks you look like Tarzan? I don't really see it."

"Johnny Weissmuller was an Olympic gold medalist in swimming," Lydia declares, staring at her reflection in a small compact mirror. "The Tarzan movies weren't until years after his last Olympics."

"I'd forgotten that you're a little terrifying," Derek tells her as he watches her touch up her lip gloss. "While I was in New York, it just slipped my mind. I remember now."

"Well." She smacks her lips and snaps the compact shut. "I'm actually a lot terrifying but the important thing here is that you remember now. So it's all good. No harm, no foul."

When practice is over, Derek catches Stiles by the wrist before he can head back to the locker room. "So, you want to make out under the bleachers?" It's something he's never done that they probably both want. 

He's proven right when Stiles breathes, "You're a genius and I love you." He twists his fingers in Derek's leather jacket when Derek drags him beneath the cold metal seats. Derek takes his face in both hands and kisses him, like he's been wanting to all day - hard and messy with teeth and tongue and no care for finesse until they have to pull apart to breathe. "Fuck. This is a total Outsiders fantasy come true right now," Stiles pants, shoving a leg between Derek's and grinding against him. "Seriously, Soda Pop, I'm dying here." 

Derek takes advantage of the moment to finally set his mouth on Stiles’ neck. The sweat's mostly dried in the cool March wind but the flavor is there - salty and bitter but clean and pure Stiles. He finds himself licking with long strokes of his tongue from Stiles' shirt collar to just below his ear over and over, drunk on the taste of him. "Like it," he manages.

"It's so high school," Stiles laughs. "In every freaking way including the literal."

"Yeah." That's true but Derek never really got to have the high school romance when he was in high school. He pulls back and looks at Stiles. "I, uh, I think I like that too. Wish list like it maybe."

Stiles grins. "Oh. So hey, Derek. So you wanna go out with me? I was thinking we could do it up right, obey curfew, maybe even double with Scott and Allison tomorrow."

Derek would love to claim that he doesn't blush but his ears and cheeks definitely go hot when he nods. He knows it's stupid. It's so fucking stupid but it also feels a tiny bit like a second chance, like a little piece of sixteen he can do right. "Sure. Sounds fun."

And the crazy thing is? It actually does.


	3. Bases Loaded, Just Make a Game Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family dinner, planning an actualfax date, and Stiles and Derek have some private time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is, as ever, my go-to panacea. I write it when I need to feel better and once again it's done the trick. Before you ask: YES THERE WILL BE MORE! I do not know when, but there will be. I will not give up on this fic, ever, and at some point it will be finished. I just cant give you a date. I wish I could but my muse she is a fickle mistress.
> 
> Tried and Tested Update: Real life has gotten in the way but I WILL FINISH THAT SERIES. Like this fic, I just dont know when but I will finish if it kills me(which it very well might). In addition, beyond the very next story in the series, I am waiting for 3A to finish because I need the new canon complete to continue with my plotting.
> 
> Thanks to Deidra, Ari, knight_tracer, nev, and anyone else who helped in a cheerleader or beta capacity. Also thank you to anyone who reviewed. I'm so glad there's still interest. I ♥ you all.
> 
> Anyway, on with the show...

"So what does dating entail exactly?" Stiles says later, his legs swinging back and forth to make a dull thumping noise against the cabinets below him. He's perched on the kitchen counter of Chez Stilinski watching Derek ferret through the fridge for something to cook for dinner. Derek had agreed in the car to cook mostly because he really wanted to but partially because Stiles was managing the really impressive multitasking job of driving and jerking Derek off at the same time. Derek had come all over his fist and they hadn't gotten in a car wreck so, all in all, they counted it as a win and thank god for that because Derek was dying by the time they got off the lacrosse pitch.

It'd taken some work, but necking under the bleachers was supposed to be just that - necking. So right about the time Derek had been ready to drop to his knees and do all the things "good girls don't" Stiles had called a breathless time out and run for the locker rooms. 

"I have no idea." Derek admits as he emerges triumphantly with a pound and a half of ground beef and three different kinds of green vegetables. Stiles was always going on after his dad's health after all, and his own dad taught him how to do a decent stir-fry once upon a time. "Laura's dates tended to involve a lot of high heels and dinners."

Stiles glances away from the cornucopia of cooking supplies, down at his bare feet, then up at Derek's face and smirks. "Which of us is supposed to wear the heels in this equation? Because for a dude such big feet, you've got very delicate arches and dainty toes, my friend."

"I guess whoever can find a pair that fit," Derek replies just to make Stiles laugh. 

However, Derek very pointedly doesn’t mention that Oz knows everyone, literally everyone, in New York. Every person who has escaped Oz's vast and mystical web of _"oh yeah, I know that guy"_ is almost certainly reachable by someone who knows someone who knows Kyla, Marie or Zhang. Between them, Derek is pretty sure they could probably find Blahniks for both of them - if that's Stiles's thing. He's never really thought about it too seriously besides the parting jab at the airport about playing Leia next Halloween. 

Of course, Stiles did lose his virginity to a drag queen. He still hangs out with The Girls fairly regularly. Those are always Derek's favorite updates - hearing about what The Girls are up to. They're so much more fun than the latest pack drama or Stiles’ legitimate worries over his dad. Last time they were on a crusade to explain the value of body glitter to their favorite protégé so maybe that is one of Stiles's things.

Derek doesn't know if that's something he'd be into or not, although he's not opposed to the idea of giving it a shot if Stiles wants. Hell, he's game to try almost anything once. 

Almost. He's got hard limits, most of them obvious things involving fire and electricity and long fingernails dragging down his stomach. He and Stiles are both in agreement that they've had the crap kicked out of them too many times to ever enjoy impact play. Although Derek hasn't had the balls to tell Stiles yet any blow dealt to him shirtless and vulnerable will remind him of Kate's boots on his stomach because no, nope, he's not bringing her into this moment of cooking and domestics and blissful yet fragile normality. She's fucking dead and Stiles is next to him, chuckling at the ridiculous notion of either of them wobbling around in heels.

"Mini-golf?" Stiles offers drumming his heels against the cabinet beneath him.

"They built a mini-golf course since I left?"

"No. But we could like, make our own course up. Like from my dad's house to the stop sign at the intersection is the first hole with a par three. That kind of thing."

"There are better things you could do with your creativity than that," Derek argues. "At least while I'm here.” 

Derek sets all the ingredients down and moves to cage Stiles in on the counter. If he didn't need to cook, if the Sheriff weren't due back in 45 minutes, he would take him right here, just duck his head and suck him slow and lazy until Stiles screams for it, pliant and begging under his touch. 

"True. I have access to like three kinds of non-dangerous wolfsbane. I've been doing a lot of research on all the subspecies and their effects on your kind and I think that there are some we could have serious fun with. I mean, I'll have to triple-check with Deaton first but I have theories."

He has no idea what part that kind of wolfsbane could or would play in Stiles's plans, none, but his interest is piqued. He wants to coerce the answers out of him with his tongue one word at a time. "Okay," he manages without stuttering or his voice breaking at the images. "You make my point for me. But dinner is fine, Stiles. Neither one of us has to wear heels for dinner to count as a date. I'm pretty sure that's not a rule." Stiles laughs again. Derek takes no small amount of pride in being able to make him do that. "But you're not pulling out the magic potions tonight."

Stiles shakes his head so hard he looks like a bobble-head doll. Derek winces. Human ligaments were just not meant to take that kind of stress.

"Hell no. Tonight, dinner is you and me slaving over a hot stove for us to partake of it with my dad. I approve of your choice of involving dead cow in the meal plan, by the way. Can I suggest potatoes as well? Associating you with beef and saturated fats in my father's mind can only do good things for our relationship." 

"You're incredibly calculating right now," Derek points out, hooking his fingers just over the tops of Stiles jeans so he can feel just a hint of skin against the pads of his thumbs.

"I know right? I could be an awesome politician."

"You'll be an awesome whatever. If you go for politics, in twenty-five years you'll be in the White House."

Stiles snorts. "Yeah. Sure. That'd be interesting. President Cant-Pronounce-His-First-Name Stilinski and the First Werewolf. Oh my god, I'm imagining you redecorating the White House in black leather and Victorian post-mortem photos. It's magical."

"You know death photography was a totally legitimate art form, Stiles, and one of the only pictures some families ever got of their loved ones," Derek says because that is totally a button pushed, albeit playfully, and Stiles knows it. 

New button, one Derek's only found recently since his headfirst dive into the world of photography, but totally a line. Some things are sacred and this is one of them, at least to him. He's enchanted with the practice, fascinated by idea that there was once a perfectly acceptable practice of holding onto the dead with a camera. More, it makes him ache that his family could never be captured like that, even if it were possible to photograph the bodies of the burned the same way. 

"So you've said." Stiles is smiling, his soft smile. It's the one that means that he's amused with Derek, fond and warm. "This is not cooking."

"The cooking could be a metaphor."

"Well damn, Derek, I had no idea you were into extended metaphor." He slides off the counter and comes to stand behind Derek, his chest pressed to Derek's back. He kisses the skin over vertebrae at the base of Derek's neck and it makes him shiver. 

"Maybe you bring it out of me." Derek doesn’t twist in his arms like he wants to because he can hear a car on the street and he's fairly sure it's the cruiser. Then there are wheels on the gravel in the driveway and the sound of the garage door going up, just as expected. Derek sighs and turns, presses an open mouthed kiss to Stiles mouth then jerks his head at the table. "You should set the table while I finish this. Your dad's going to walk in the door in about twenty seconds."

"Ugh. I think he took early shifts this week just to spite me," Stiles declares but he pulls away. "You took early shifts just to ruin my life didn’t you?" he calls to his father when the door opens.

"Yes, son," the Sheriff returns as his keys hit a table by the door and his jacket drops to the floor. "It wasn't because of scheduling or the needs of the staff. It was to make your life in particular difficult and unpleasant. I enjoy making you miserable that much."

"There was going to be roast beast," Stiles says, blocking the sheriff at the doorway to the kitchen. "Derek made it. But if you're going to be a grinch you can go back up the mountain while we down here in Whoville enjoy the rich feast comprised mostly of red meat."

"You're going to try and Seuss me now? That’s the track you want to take?"

"It's lighthearted yet effective. Dad, come on." Stiles has pulled out Bambi eyes. Derek doesn't even need to see his face to know. It's all in the tone of his voice. "Derek came all the way across the country to see me, you're on all these super early shifts and he really did make you a roast."

"That's very sweet of you. Thank you Derek."

"You're welcome," Derek calls from the kitchen. He respects the Sheriff. Given a few more substantial conversations he'll probably like the man. At the moment though, he'd be good with putting the food out and hiding until it’s gone, like cookies for Santa where beef are the cookies and Stiles is all the Christmas presents he could ever receive. 

Things don't work out like that so he finds himself awkwardly setting the table with Stiles and settling himself down next to him, across from the Sheriff at the table. The room is quiet except for the clink of cutlery on plates and the sounds of a house humming - refrigerator, oven, microwave, washing machine, the hot water heater in the basement, the whir of Stiles’ laptop upstairs and the Sheriff's desktop somewhere in the back of the house. Derek lets those normal noises wash over him because this is just a place like any other, only better. Stiles is here.

There's the bonus of knowing that Stiles's dad doesn't hate him. Oh, he's really uncomfortable. His son's much-older sexually active boyfriend is sleeping in his house. Derek can't blame him for feeling uncomfortable about this at all, considering how awkward he himself feels. The stress smell is coming off the Sheriff in waves, but there's no undertones of aggression and his heartbeat is just as quick as his own, no real fear or anger, just typical anxiety for a situation as weird as this one. 

All Derek's wanted since he lost his family is normalcy. Well, he thinks, congratulations, now you have it. Normal is facing your boyfriend's dad in all its awkward awful glory. 

He clears his throat and tries, he really does, "So, how about the Dodgers?"

The Sheriff snorts. "Baseball? Really? Son, given the sort of athletic ability I've seen from you and your friends, I'd think you'd prefer a sport with a little more action."

"Thank you," Stiles crows. "I told you. It's barely a sport."

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. "Do you know the amount of accuracy it requires to hit a baseball with any kind of precision, let alone that required for a home run?"

"Enough that you can do it while drinking like a fish and smoking cigars like a chimney?" the Sheriff offers. Stiles laughs at that and Derek sighs. He will never win the baseball argument. That's really not fair but it's loosened everything up. 

He feels proud of that, inordinately proud. It means that he's actually becoming part of this small family. Even so, a man has his limits. "Sir, with all due respect, did you just slander Babe Ruth?"

The Sheriff looks affronted. "It's not slander. I would never. The man's a legend for a reason. It's merely an observation of the sport's...physical requirements as compared to say, football. " Stiles chokes on his water, Derek hits him on the back a little too hard and the Sheriff is laughing at both of them. 

Derek's chest aches because this feels like everything he's ever lost given back to him, wrapped in a bow. It's family that teases and laughs around a dinner table. He looks at Stiles and knows his heart is probably is eyes but he can't help it. He's too fucking grateful that anything in Beacon Hills could ever feel even remotely like home.

~*~*~

"Sex is a date," Stiles declares, his head on Derek's shoulder. They're sweaty and sticky, and Stiles is still panting. Derek probably would be too if he were human but as it stands he's just warm and pliant from two good orgasms and he's enjoying the mingled Stiles&Derek smell that always comes along with sex. "What we just did was totally date-worthy. I feel like that was better than roses and, like, mini-golf. You do still want to date right, and not just lock ourselves in here and fuck like rabbits until our brains melt, yes?"

"We could go to the drive-in, in Hill Valley," Derek offers because actually, yes damnit. He does want to date. Maybe that makes him childish but he does want it. He's never been to the drive-in but one of his older cousins once bragged about scoring in the backseat while ignoring Matrix Revolutions when he was younger. It seems like a decent compromise.

Stiles sits up at that, his eyes bright. "That is brilliant. No. Seriously. Brilliant." It earns him a quick kiss before Stiles is reaching over him for his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Texting Scott." He grins at Derek as his fingers fly over the screen. "Like we said. It's going to be a double, remember?"

Derek puts a hand over his face. "Maybe this was a mistake."

"Hey, Derek, I love you. I'm just trying to make you happy here. Wish fulfillment, remember? Plus, Warm Bodies is still in theaters. It's a love story with zombies. Something for everyone."

"Warm Bodies."

"Mm. The only supernatural love story better than Lydia and Jackson's. I'll make sure you take the book with you when you go back to New York too."

Derek grins into Stiles hair. "You reading romance novels now?"

"No. I'm reading zombie epics inspired by the most well-known Shakespearean romance of all time. There's a difference. Now shut up and kiss me again because I'm totally getting another hard-on."

"Talking about zombies?"

"You want to judge this wood or do you want to use it?" Stiles demands.

"Do not call it wood," Derek groans. "That is so unsexy. It sounds like I'm about to have sex with Pinocchio." 

Stiles grins and moves to lie on top of Derek. Derek lifts his legs in response and plants his feet on the mattress so that his knees cage Stiles in. Stiles just grins and rubs his nose along his jaw up towards his ear. He nips Derek's earlobe and murmurs, "You want me to show you how much of a real boy I am?"

"That is so horribly cheesy," Derek groans but Stiles is sucking on the skin below his ear and he's getting hard again. "Vieux Boulogne cheese bad."

"It should not get me hot that you know the worst smelling cheese in the world," Stiles mumbles against his neck because he's making his way down. "You are such a dork."

Burying a hands in Stiles hair, Derek tugs it back so he has to look up. Stiles is smiling. Derek returns it with an dubious eyebrow lift. “Seriously, read a book.”

"And then you quote Archer at me. Oh my god." Stiles says, still smiling. "It’s like you're made of sex pollen, I swear to porn." Derek feels his hand snaking between them, sliding along their stomachs. "Tell me you're still wet because I need to be inside you right the fuck now."

Derek doesn't answer because Stiles’ hand gets there first, stopping to cup his balls before moving farther back to rub at his still-slick hole. He hums a little at the light tease of pressure. Then Stiles is pushing two fingers inside and the breath is knocked out of him like he just got punched in the solar plexus. The slide is easy because he's still almost dripping but fuck, it is so much to feel all at once. Stiles is a terrifyingly quick study and he's learned where to touch and press and stroke inside Derek's body to make him blind with pleasure with the speed of a prodigy. 

When Derek catches his breath again, Stiles’s forehead is inches from his own, the tips of their noses touching as those long, dexterous fingers fuck his hole, his knuckles pressing against his prostate with each slide in and pull out. Derek blinks up at him, dazed. "Hey," he half-gasps.

Stiles smiles back, small this time, with his lips closed. It's mostly in his eyes, lit up and crinkled at the edges. He's beautiful that way. "Hi." He dips down and kisses the corner of Derek's mouth. 

Derek wants to say something in response, something to keep the gentle report they've begun going but instead he nods. He's not doing so great with words at the moment. He grabs the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him down so he can kiss him. It’s sloppy, mostly open mouths pressed together, with messy tongues trying to find a rhythm to match their grinding hips. Derek thinks he groans "Fuck me" into Stiles’ mouth but he might not. It's hard to tell like this and Stiles doesn't stop kissing him for what feels like hours so maybe he didn't. 

Then Stiles pulls back and gasps, "Oh my god, condom," so then again, maybe he did.

Derek fumbles behind him until he hits the foil packets on the nightstand and the tube of lube they've been using and drops both of them on the bed beside his leg. He doesn't watch Stiles get ready. He just takes deep breathes and adjusts to the feeling of his hole clenching on nothing without Stiles's fingers inside, knowing that his cock is going to take their place. It doesn't do much. His cock is so hard that just the air feels like it’s too much, and it's leaking precome that's already smearedon his stomach.

Thankfully, Stiles doesn't take his time, just pushes inside with one smooth hard thrust because he knows that Derek can take it. More important is the fact that Stiles is learning that Derek likes it, the sudden shift from empty to full between heartbeats. It makes him feel like he's choking on Stiles's cock from the inside, and sends his neck stretching back and his back curving into a bow because he is a creature of change. Shifting from one state to another is one of his life's pleasures and this particular shift is one of the most blissful.

Stiles clutches Derek's hips where they meet his thighs for leverage as Stiles fucks into him. Or maybe just for stability. It's maddening because it doesn't give Derek's cock anything to rub against. He has to take himself in hand and try to keep up with Stiles's tempo to find something like relief.

Derek feels like he's finally found the groove when Stiles shifts up onto his knees, pulling Derek with him so that he's draped over Stiles's lap. The way he lifts Derek's ass up to thrust up into him is a reminder that Stiles is much stronger than he looks in his sloppy, oversized clothes. The gangly boy he used to be is now a man who forged his power from years of lacrosse and fighting and running for his life and for the lives of others. 

Stiles is like steel cables, narrow but twisted for strength and durability with some bend but no give. Derek loves that about him. Loves his stubbornness and his resolve and his unwavering principles and just... him. Derek fucking loves him so much that it takes the air from his lungs just as surely as a change in angle that has Stiles's cock hitting Derek's prostate does. 

Stiles bends forward, draping himself across him and lets go of one hip to take Derek's hand in his own. "Fucking mine," he says through gritted teeth, clearly holding off on his own orgasm. He ducks his head and presses a kiss to Derek's sternum saying "Derek, fuck, you're so mine."

Derek comes with a howl that is wholly animal. It shakes the glass in the window and when he's done, flopping limp and covered in his own come, he knows that every werewolf in Beacon Hills has to have heard it. He can feel his long canines and realizes his claws are out too; he must have changed into his beta form during his orgasm. 

Stiles seems to approve because he's let go of Derek's hand and has both of his own planted on the bed just above Derek's shoulders for leverage as he fucks Derek with wild, careless abandon. Derek drags his claws gently down Stiles’ spine starting at the back of his skull and trailing all the way to the curve where his ass begins, and Stiles comes, choking on Derek's name. He jerks and thrusts hard, hard enough that it would probably hurt a human partner but Derek takes it and drags his claws back up, so gentle it wouldn't even leave a mark let alone break the skin, just to see Stiles twitch and shake. 

They are so lucky the Sheriff decided to go visit Melissa after dinner. There's no good way to hide something like rattling windows.

When it's over, Stiles collapses on top of him and groans. "You're magic," he mumbles into Derek's shoulder.

"Werewolf," Derek points out.

Stiles waves a hand. "Semantics."

Derek laughs and wraps his arms around Stiles. Stiles slides one arm behind Derek’s neck and snuggles in a little tighter. They smell like sex and sweat and each other and Derek feels as though he could get stoned on the scent. Maybe it does drug him because he feels unnaturally brave when he says, "If I'm yours, then you're mine."

Stiles snorts. "Duh," he says and the eyeroll is actually audible. He noses Derek's collarbone. Then he licks it. It's kind of gross where it would've been hot about ten minutes ago.

Derek sniffs the air. It's rank with sweat and come and lube and latex. Stiles slipped out of him when he went soft but the condom is somewhere between the sheets, no doubt making a God-awful mess. They're already starting to stick together. "We're disgusting."

"I so don't care. We're not showering because we're not moving. We'll just be sperm superglued together. I'm pretty sure its a man-love right of passage. If not, it's just a cross we'll have to bear."

Derek's eyebrows lift but Stiles isn't looking. It's far less effective that way. "I could carry you."

"I have a wolfsbane coated knife under my bed. If you pick me up I will cut you.”

Derek snorts, not the least bit surprised by the knife but not cowed by the obvious lie in the threat. “No, you won't.”

“Okay, I won't but no. No. Nope. Staying. Comfortable. Sleeping." He makes a fake snoring noise and Derek sighs. He lets his legs straighten out around Stiles and surrenders. He's been messier for worse reasons. Besides, his smallest camera is on the nightstand with his phone. The pictures of Stiles face in the morning when he realizes what a huge mistake he's made are going to be priceless.


	4. We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a drive in date, a meeting at the Hale House and a huge surprise for Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is, as ever, my go-to panacea. I write it when I need to feel better and once again it's done the trick. Before you ask: YES THERE WILL BE MORE! I do not know when, but there will be. I will not give up on this fic, ever, and at some point it will be finished. I just cant give you a date. I wish I could but my muse she is a fickle mistress.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the book Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion. 
> 
> Status update:  
> Omega Fratverse-at my beta.  
> Tried and Tested-waiting to see what Peter's real deal is before I go further because he's behind it all.
> 
> Thanks so much to Val and Ann for cheerleading and a quick and dirty beta. I figured you'd want this sooner rather than later.

They don’t take the Jeep because it’s just not a date car. They don’t go on Scott’s ridiculous dirt bike either. Really who has a crotch rocket in yellow like that? Derek is secretly appalled but Scott is so damn proud of it he can’t bring himself to say anything. 

Well. Not to his face. He’s not actually a mean person. He’ll save that for when it’s just him and Stiles. Stiles has enough sharp edges himself to understand Derek’s.

In the end Allison picks him and Stiles up in her car, Scott already ensconced in the front seat looking happy and snug in his seatbelt like there’s nowhere he’d rather be than next to her. Derek gets that feeling. He keeps finding excuses to hold Stiles’s hand like a twelve year old so he has zero room to judge. 

“Get in,” Scott says, window rolled down, smirk on his lips and ha ha. That’s cute. Derek had almost forgotten about all the little incidents when he had the Camero and Scott was stuck on a four-speed, back when his pack was new and everything was a mess with the kanima and Gerard Argent. Well, not his pack, not anymore, and wasn’t it better that way.

The drive-in is crowded for a weeknight. Stiles gets popcorn, Twizzlers, and a soda the size of his head. He practically juggles them back to the car and Derek can’t help but smile. 

“Don’t want to miss the previews,” he says around a mouthful of the popcorn, snuggling in against Derek’s side. He fits so well there. Derek can breathe easily when he’s there.

Warm Bodies is beautiful, a symphony of undead landscape that is sad and hopeful. It makes Derek ache, the way the zombie R claws his humanity back one moment at a time. He remembers his own struggle back to life and it makes him miss New York. He’d go home now if he could take Stiles with him and someday soon, Stiles will be at Columbia and they’ll only have to come back to this haunted pit to see the Sheriff.

“Come on,” Stiles whispers when the couple on screen kiss. It’s a good kiss. It makes Derek want to kiss too so he lets Stiles pull him from the car and pins him against the trunk. 

“You make me feel like that,” Derek says, nuzzling against Stiles’s ear then pointing at the screen with his chin, then back. “Like I’m alive.”

“Were you dead before?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Derek admits. He was dead for a long time before he moved to New York the second time. He burned with his family in ways Derek didn’t even realize until he healed. Stiles didn’t fix him. Derek did that but Stiles made his life so much better once he started really living it again.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Stiles purrs. “Necrophilia isn’t my kink.”

“No, you want me in high heels.”

“Or just generally naked. I wouldn’t say no. I love your legs.” He kisses Derek’s chin. “And your ass.” His cheek. “And your sides.” His other cheek. “And your stomach.” He nips at Derek’s lower lips with blunt teeth. “And your chest.”

“Are you going to name all my parts?”

“Maybe. Do you need me to or are you getting the picture?”

“It’s definitely forming.”

“Basically I love all your pieces and parts.” He mouths along Derek’s jaw. He melts into Stiles’s lithe body, pressing against him.

“Sap.”

“My boyfriend is in town for a few days. I’m allowed to be a sap.” Stiles runs his hands up and down his arms. It’s a warming gesture in the cold winter air but Derek shivers anyway. 

“Even though you’ve got a pack meeting tomorrow?”

“Ugh, yeah. Let’s not think about that now. Let’s just dry hump on Allison’s car. It needs defiling.”

“I’m not opposed to that.” Derek agrees as Stiles hops up to sit on the trunk. It makes him half a foot taller for a few seconds until he wraps himself around Derek. It’s one of Derek’s favorite positions even if it is just kissing. Well no. It’s never just anything with Stiles. 

“Get off my car,” Allison calls out the window. Derek doesn’t need to be told twice. There are woods around the various screens, separating them from each other, and he only needs 5, maybe ten minutes on the outside to suck Stiles off against a tree. Maybe less if the wriggling is any indication. He can practically forget that at no point did Stiles deny or protest the pack meeting thing. Lydia said he should go so he will but later, after he’s had Stiles down his throat and a good amount of dirt on his knees. Sometime like tomorrow.

For now he has Stiles wrapped inside him, pulling his hair, saying his name. He hums his pleasure and it makes Stiles cry out, pull hard. It hurts so good. Stiles never holds back from him, trusts Derek to set his own limits. Right now he doesn’t have one. He’s good to trust Stiles right back until jets of come hit the back of his mouth.

He has to remind himself about the whole trust thing when they pull up to the Hale House. It’s terrifying because the burnt out shell is gone and that is his house. Granted, the place is blue with white trim and shutters instead of white with green the way it was growing up but holy shit. It’s his motherfucking house. Peter actually did it. He rebuilt the Hale House from the wreckage the city nearly tore down. Derek fists clench hard, claws drawing blood from his palms, and he stares out the windshield as Stiles clambers out of the Jeep.

“It’s back Laura,” he whispers, so soft not even the other wolves would be able to hear it. “It’s here.” He’s paralyzed, gaping awestruck at the house and bleeding onto his jeans until Stiles appears beside him. 

He clears his throat and leans in the window. “You gonna join us in there, buddy?”

Derek turns to look into Stiles liquid amber eyes. Above them are dark brows, furrowed together in concern. Derek watches them twitch and his pupils dilate and contract. He glances down at Stiles’s red mouth and traces the curves with his eyes until reality stops spinning around like Dorothy’s twister. 

Stiles leans further in the window and takes his face in hand. He smooths his cheekbone with a thumb, ruffling his beard. It’s an anchor, pulling him away from the shock of the house. Derek leans into the touch and hums under his breath, centering himself. The feeling of his facial hair moving back and forth under soft skin is so grounding he opens the door all on his own. Stiles kisses him as a reward, slow and sweet with open lips and a hint of tongue.

“You ready for this?”

Nope. Not even a little. He nods anyway and lets Stiles lead him in by their laced hands.

The inside of the house is sunny with hardwood floors and cream paint on the walls. Derek finds himself blinking at the brightness that feels somehow wrong now. He’s so used to this place being suffused with darkness that the sound of laughter echoing through the hallways actually makes him flinch.

“Seriously, we don’t have to do this.” 

“Yes, we do.” 

“No, actually, we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to,” Stiles points out, kissing his knuckles. 

“They’re your pack,” Derek argues. “You can’t cut out on your pack.” That’s the problem isn’t it? His fear ever since Lydia mentioned it. Stiles is bound to these people by love and pack. 

“You’re my pack too.” Stiles says. “And you’re not staying long so if you think I won’t pick you over a stupid meeting-“

“It’s not stupid.” The Hale Pack is rebuilt and operating out of his old home. There’s nothing stupid there. 

“Anything that makes your face look like that is stupid.” He rubs his lip over the back of Derek’s hand. “Tell me you are going to be okay with Peter so I’ll believe it.”

“I’ll be okay with Peter.”

“You’re such a terrible liar. I just want you to know that. I don’t need to hear your heartbeat. Just your face gives it all away.”

“I’ll be okay anyway. I’m an adult.” Not just an adult, Derek tells himself, but one who is healing into a semi-functional person. “I can handle myself.” 

“Did I say you couldn’t?”

“No but-“

“The guy murdered your sister. Okay? Sometimes I think I’m the only one who remembers that.”

And fuck. “Fuck.” He pins Stiles to the beautifully repainted wall and kisses the hell out of him because that, that right there is why he loves him. Suspicious, unforgiving, protective Stiles who wouldn’t let his grievance go even if Derek was willing to put it on a shelf for one day. “I love you,” he pants, breathless and so close he can feel Stiles smile.

“I love you too. So, final verdict?”

“Bandaid method. Rip it off.”

“Okay then.”

Derek feels prepared to see his uncle. He’s prepared to see Erica and Boyd and Isaac after years of nothing but a few staggered phone calls. He’s prepared to see Allison Argent and her face that is so like Kate’s and so completely different and Scott who is the wolf Derek wanted to be growing up and has failed to become. He’s ready to talk to Jackson, the young man he still considers his greatest failure, but who has according to Stiles come into his own with Lydia, who he once tried to kill.

What he’s not ready for, not remotely, is the dark haired girl standing sullenly in the corner of the room in a loose long-sleeved shirt with her arms wrapped around herself. Her presence rips all the oxygen from the room and leaves Derek choking because Cora is alive. She’s alive and right here and he can’t fucking breathe. He can’t breathe and his baby sister is alive. When he manages something like a breath what comes out is a sob because it’s been eight years and he thought he killed her. “Cora.”

“Well,” Peter says with a heavy frustrated sigh, “There goes my grand surprise. When I heard you were in town I called her and she drove right up.”

Stiles’s arm around his waist has tightened at some point, his body rigid as a two-by-four next to him. He’s holding him up in fact, hiding the fact that Derek’s knees are going to give behind their intimacy even though he's clearly uncomfortable, had no idea this was going to happen, that Cora even existed.

“You thought this was appropriate to do in public?” Lydia snaps and god bless her for it. “Jesus, Peter. Just when I thought-“

“I couldn’t sink any lower. Yes Ms. Martin, I know your opinion of me. How lucky for me there are so many fucks I just don’t give.” Derek can hear his toothy grin. 

He can’t see it with his gaze locked on Cora. She’s staring back and her eyes are bright. They’re a dark brown that remind him so much of their mother he could snap like a twig, break down and cry right here in front of all these people who know him too well to see him snap.

He can smell her, tropical in a room full of woodsy, northern California smells. She smells of exotic fruit and far away dirt and a little blood, just a few drops that are old and dried and probably don’t hurt her, at least not anymore. He hates that it probably hurt her once before. 

He leans back against Stiles’s side and holds out his hand to her, says her name again. “Can I?” He asks but he’s not sure what he’s asking for exactly. _Hold you, touch you, check to make sure that you’re real._ Her boots thud against the wood and then her arms are around his neck. 

For the first time since Laura left, he’s hugging his sister. He buries his face in her neck as he wraps her up in his embrace, winding around her back. He takes a step back, picks her up, and spins her around, laughing with a wet face. His family. He has family again. He kisses her temple and squeezes her closer and she lets him. “I thought you were dead,” she says hoarsely. “But you’re not. Uncle Peter didn’t tell me.”

“He didn’t tell me either.” He swallows and feels his throat click. “No one told me. I thought- But you’re here, Cora. You’re alive. How-” 

“I should ask you.”

“We were at school, Laura and I but she’s-“

“Uncle Peter told me she died.”

Murderer. He murdered her. Derek squeezes Cora again, probably too close, too hard, but she’s a wolf, she can handle it, her joints don’t grind together and her bones don’t creak under the pressure. She just hugs him back.

“Now, old business-” Peter begins but Derek isn’t having it. 

“You don’t want to bring up old business now. You really don’t.”

He smiles all teeth over Cora’s shoulder. “Don’t I? We found wendigos living in town last week. Lovely family. The Wolcotts. Too bad they eat human flesh. We’re going to have to kill them and that can’t really wait for your feelings explosion to subside.”

“Do we know yet if they kill people or do they just eat them?” Boyd asks. “Because it’s gross but it wasn’t clear. If they’re just eating what’s already dead then I say we leave them alone.”

The room argues about the ethics of wendigo slaughter with Scott on Boyd’s side. It’s all very student government. Derek doesn’t let himself get involved, clinging to Cora on one side and Stiles on the other. He isn’t sure how to tell her what Peter did without screaming or clawing his face off. He doesn’t want to destroy this pack, he knows how hard one is to build, but his uncle can’t just be left here, like this, with power over young people with extreme strength and abilities. 

He hasn’t felt like this since before he faced the Alpha Pack. Before they knew who the kanima was maybe was the last time, lost and struggling to do the right thing. He feels really fucking young all of a sudden, sixteen again and lost. Stiles hand lands on his knee before Derek realizes it’s bouncing. 

“Come back with us,” Derek whispers into her ear. It’s practically pointless when all but three of the people in the house are werewolves but she nods and tightens her grip on his hand. She’s not letting go any time soon either. 

In the end, Peter is over ridden by a Scott-led vote not to attack the Wolcotts. No one stops him as he pulls Cora out of the house. They don’t understand, cannot possibly imagine, but they’re trying.

“So where’s home?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “Do you live with him?”

For a moment Derek is confused. “Oh. Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

“No, I just - I live in New York but I’m here visiting him for this week.” Because of the anniversary he doesn’t need to say. Her dark eyes meet his pale ones. It’s clear that she knows why.

The sound of Stiles tossing his keys from one hand to another announces his presence. He shakes them at Derek like a dinner bell and smiles with his whole face. “Ready to go home?”

Derek looks back over his shoulder at the house, blue with white trim, three stories and glowing with bright light inside. Then he turns back to look at miracles that are Stiles and Cora.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”


	5. The Hatching of a Plot (What Plot?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing here? Couldn't get enough of us at the pack meeting?” Stiles teases, wiggling his eyebrows.
> 
> She smiles back and shakes her head. “No. I came here to talk to you two about killing Peter."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Val for the constant cheerleading and EverAlexia for the awesome beta.

Lydia and Jackson are waiting for them at the kitchen table when they arrive at the Stilinski residence. The sheriff is making himself one last cup of coffee for the night, mostly ignoring the young people who have taken over his house. Cora lingers back but Stiles pours himself into the chair beside Lydia’s like his bones are liquid. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles like something out of a fairytale but Jackson doesn’t even blink so Derek tries not to be jealous.

“What are you doing here? Couldn't get enough of us at the pack meeting?” Stiles teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

She smiles back and shakes her head. “No. I came here to talk to you two about killing Peter. He’s been a danger to all of us for long enough.”

“Right,” Sheriff Stilinski says, putting his mug down with far more force than strictly necessary. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Make sure the doors are locked before you turn in. Good night.”

He leaves the doctored coffee on the counter and leaves the room without another word to them, muttering under his breath about werewolves and due process. It wouldn’t be the last thing the sheriff had to had to say on the subject, not by a long shot, but it was late and Derek could understand needing to sleep on a bombshell like that.

“You can’t be serious,” Cora says, laughing a little in dismay. “You don’t really think we’re going to help you kill our only living relative do you?”

“Actually, thats exactly what I think.” She levels Cora with a long look then turns to Derek. “You haven’t told her yet.” Her gaze could cut him to a thousand pieces. He feels himself flinch. “

“We were getting there,” he says, watching as Jackson rises from his seat to take the untouched coffee. He sips, then nods at it, as if the coffee needs to know he approves. Derek can’t believe he forgot how entitled Jackson was, watching him return to his seat, the sheriff’s coffee in hand.

“How do you warm up to that sort of thing?” Jackson asks after taking another mouthful of pilfered coffee. “I mean, doesn’t seem like there’s a protocol for psychotic family exposition.”

“Jackson, shut the fuck up,” Stiles snaps.

Cora’s small hand lands on his arm in a pleading grip. Derek finds himself looking at it like it’s an alien creature. Cora is touching him and a few hours ago, she was as good as dead. He still can’t really believe it. He just didn’t want to ruin this perfect moment with hard truths already.

Derek pulls away from her hold but squeezes her hand before he sets it down and settles into a seat at the table because he needs to be fucking sitting down if they’re doing this. He gestures for her to join him but she shakes her head.

“I’ll stand.”

“I’ll sit then,” Stiles says, dropping into the last chair. He reaches over and places a hand onto Derek’s knee. He squeezes once, his gaze a question.

Do you want me to tell her? It asks. Derek nods because yes, actually, he does. Then he shakes his head because she can’t hear this from anyone else. She just can’t.

“Cora,” He starts, then stops. He sighs and rubs his face with the palms of his hands. Then he starts again and does it Stiles’s way, rip it off like a bandaid. “Peter murdered Laura three years ago. He murdered everyone even remotely involved in the fire and when Laura came to see what was going on he tore her to pieces and left her for hunters to cut in half. I found her like that, Cora, because of him.”

Cora gapes at him, her jaw hanging slack. She stands with her mouth hanging open for impossibly long moments before she whispers, “You’re not lying.”

“Of course he’s not,” Lydia says. “Do you think its a coincidence that he didn’t tell you about Derek?”

“You were my surprise.” She sounds young and lost. Derek doesn't know what he told her but oh he can guess. “Uncle Peter can’t-“ Cora shakes her head then drags her hand through her long, black hair sending the strands into a riot around her face. When she speaks again her voice is strong and angry. “We don’t need to kill him.”

“Yeah, actually we probably do,” Stiles counters, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s already started talking about pack unity post graduation. He’s not going to let any of us go.”

“I got into Harvard,” Jackson says. “I’m not staying in this shitty little town because Mr. Murderwolf wants to use me as a battery.”

“And that’s what he’s been doing,” Lydia says. “Boyd, Erica, and Isaac can’t see it. They weren’t here for his first rampage and he’s gotten in their heads. He's used whatever it is he has that got to me sophomore year to alter their minds, only more. The only way we can get them free of him is to get rid of him.”

Derek’s blood goes cold. “You didn’t tell me that.” He says turning to fix his gaze on Stiles. “They’re _my_ betas. How could you have not told me that?”

“Because of that exact look on your face.” Stiles waves his hand in Derek’s direction and what? What does his face look like that Stiles wouldn’t tell him something of this magnitude.

“Is now really the time for sarcasm, Stiles?”

“We just figured it out,” Stiles sighs. “We’re talking like two weeks before you got here. I wasn’t going to pull you out of your life for something we could handle on our own. And, yes, it is always time for sarcasm.”

Sometimes, Derek thinks, its easy to forget that Stiles is capable of being so cold, because what he gives Derek is so warm. Still, this is down right ridiculous. He tilts his head in disbelief. “Murdering your Alpha is something you could do on your own?”

“ _You’re_ my Alpha,” Jackson cuts in, and his words take Derek’s breath away. After the kanima and Jackson’s brush with death, he never could have imagined that Jackson would ever think of him that way.

“Jackson.”

“You are. You turned me.” He glances down at his hands and Derek follows his gaze to find Jackson’s fingers are interlaced with Lydia’s. He remembers killing this boy, and Lydia’s tears, and thinks that moments like this are where real love comes out. “I feel you, not him.” Jackson says firmly. “Scott is the only person in that pack who really belongs to him and even he’s done everything he can to break that connection. Everyone else is yours, Derek.”

“Or we’re human,” Stiles agrees. “And we don’t owe loyalty to anyone. I’m part of Scott’s pack, not Peter’s. And if you ask her, Allison would say the same.”

Cora sniffs. “Yeah. That’s what that last pack meeting looked like,” she drawls in complete disdain. She adjusts her stance and glares them all down. “Derek he’s family.”

“Laura was family!” Derek shouts. “She took care of me, held us together after the fire. Family doesn’t butcher each other.”

“And good guys don’t mind-rape people,” Lydia adds, flipping her hair. 

Even Derek winces at that. She’s not wrong though, and it’s possibly one of the worst things he’s done. The inside of your own head is a sacred space.

“I should just go back to Chile,” Cora says, and she’s deadly serious.

It makes a kind of sense that she had gone there, where they have very extended family.But the idea of her leaving makes him feel like his heart’s stopped beating.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “No one’s asking you to participate.”

“But I want you to stay. Cora, please.” Derek rises from his seat to cross the room to her. He gently rests his hands on her upper arms. “I just found you again. Don’t leave already.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“We’ll all think about it,” Stiles agrees, pushing his own chair back. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. Plus, I have to kick you two," he gestures at Lydia and Jackson, "out before my dad comes down and has a heart attack.”

Jackson and Lydia both nod and rise to their feet. Stiles walks them out, leaving Derek alone with his sister. She’s so young and yet so much older than she should be, aged by trauma and hardship. “They have a guest room,” Derek says, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on her arms. “Stay here, at least for tonight.”

“Yeah,” Cora sighs. “I can do that.”

~*~*~

They’re kissing before they make it to Stiles’ bed, and oh god, Derek really wants to let that be it. He wants to bury his hands under Stiles shirt, drag the clothes off his body and fucking crawl inside where the world is nothing but safety and warmth and love. He can’t though. Not after earlier. It’s a triumph of will that he pulls away--all the way away--so that they’re not even touching any more.

“Oh,” Stiles exhales. “We’re going to do this now, aren’t we?” He drags his hand across his mouth which makes it more red if anything, goddamnit.

“What the actual fuck is going on here, Stiles?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits. “Not exactly. I’ve been trying to figure out Peter’s endgame since he came back. He killed one of the twins while you were gone and took his alpha status but apparently that’s not enough for him.”

“Again, something you should have told me about months ago.”

“No, Derek. This isn’t your life. This isn’t your town. This is my problem, our problem.The only reason Lydia included you now is because you made a surprise visit.” He reaches out and grips Derek’s hand so tight it hurts. “You’re not a part of this.”

“He’s my uncle. I’ll always be a part of this.”

“You got out. You’re free. Derek.” The grip on his hand loosens and twists so Stiles can lace their fingers together. “Don’t you dare throw that away over this. Not for him, of all people.”

“It wouldn’t be for him. You know that. It’s for you and the rest of the pack.” His whole body tenses up at the very idea of leaving his boyfriend and his family alone to face a monster. “I knew him for sixteen years before everything fell apart. You didn’t think maybe I’d be able to help? You didn’t think that I’d care enough to want to know about something that could get you killed?”

“We’ve had this fight a million times, Derek.”

“Well, this is a million and one then. I know I’m supposed to be your escape from a life that involves a neverending rotation of monster of the week, but when it involves my relatives I think that’s when you should get me involved. You of all people know how dangerous he can be. Do you think he’s forgiven you for setting him on fire?”

Stiles’s lips twitch. “Monster of the week?”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. Werewolves can get tension headaches just like everyone else. A big one is brewing behind his eyelids right now and he’s considering naming it like a hurricane, after Stiles. “That’s what Oz calls them.”

Stiles laughs, grainy and about as clear as rock sugar candy. “I love it. No, seriously. It’s perfect.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know,” Stiles giggles. “That’s why I’m laughing. It’s that or breakdown.” But then he sighs and leans into Derek, planting his forehead squarely on Derek’sshoulder. He reaches up and pushes his hand into the gelled mess of Stiles’s hair.

“Okay.”

“You know what’s stupid?”

“No.”

“You came to me to feel better.” Stiles laughs again. “Isn’t that like the most ridiculous cosmic joke?”

Derek drags his fingernails over Stiles’s nape. He didn’t like sound of that. “I do feel better. Everything is better with you.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking exactly,” Stiles tells the fabric of Derek’s shirt, hot breath muted by cotton. “I think I had this idea in my head that if I didn’t talk to you about it then it wasn’t real, the problem was manageable sized not Call Derek sized. You know?”

He turns his head and kisses the crown of Stiles’s head. “I do. You’re still wrong.”

Stiles lifts his face so their mouths are brushing against each other. “You just go on thinking that.” He ducks in for a small dry kiss. “You’re going to be with me on this anyway.”

“Of course I am.” Derek sighs. “Doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”

“There are other things you’ll like,” Stiles promises, kissing him again. This one slow and wet and open and Derek’s only warning before Stiles slides into his lap.

The sudden weight anchors him down to the to the bed. Stiles pulls at his shirt, tugging it over his headand hurling the offending garment across the room. His head is spinning as Stiles tears at the rest of their clothes.

Derek hasn’t ever seen him frantic. He doesn’t like it but he won’t stop it either. He can smell Stiles’s need in the air. Being the person who can meet that need is one of the best things in Derek's life.

He nearly loses it when Stiles leans in and licks a long line from his clavicle to his earlobe. He bites with blunt human human teeth and whispers, “Fuck me.”

“How can I say no to that?” Derek groans, tipping his head back under the attention. Stiles drags his fingernails down Derek’schest and workshis pants open, pushing his underwear down so he can wrap his fist around Derek’s hardening cock.

“You can’t. Horniness is like 20% of my attractiveness.”

“More like 15%. I think you’re under estimating the rest of your traits. Oh fuck there,” Derek gasps, thrusting up into a firm twist of Stiles’s wrist. “God, just like that.”

“Yeah, you are so perfect.” Stiles’ other hand fumbles with his own fly and pushes his pants down and off. He climbs back on, finally naked, and grinds down. They both moan and Derek grabs the back of his neck and kisses him, panting into his mouth.

“In me,” Stiles begs. “Now, now, now. Lube’s under the pillow.”

“Condom?”

“Screw condoms.” Stiles breathes. “Want to be wet with you, oh my god.”

Derek scrambles for the lube. He doesn’t even bother bringing it close to them, just flips the cap open and drenches his fingers. Stiles takes his hand and moves them behind him, using him like a living sex toy, shoving two of Derek's fingers inside to slick himself. It’s a little perverse and a lot sexy. There’s no careful stretching here. There's just Stiles fucking himself on Derek's hand and groaning and letting out little breathy noises and the occasional "fuck" as he writhes on top of him. His brow is furrowed because Stiles is clearly set on getting what he really wants.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Derek says. His chest aches with how much he loves him. He loves this man so goddamn much that it actually hurts. 

That’s all he can feel until Stiles huffs, "Good enough,” and pulls Derek's wet hand away and sinks down on his cock in one devastating slide, his hole hot and dripping and vice tight. 

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Stiles groans, forehead dropping to Derek’s shoulder for a moment. “Yeah, this.”

“Yeah.” He kisses the first skin he can reach, which turns out to be the rim of Stiles’s ear. “Ride me.”

“Oh my god, yes."

Derek is taken back to that first night in his apartment when Stiles starts to move. He remembers how grateful he felt ,and that emotion is still there. He gets to have Stiles like this, desperate and clenching in his arms. It’s a miracle. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, this amazing creature sliding up and down on his cock, loving him back.

He wraps his hand around Stiles’s dick and begins a rhythm in tandem with their thrusting, because he’s not going to last. Today’s been too rough and Stiles feels too good, gripping him tight and rippling around him as he moves up and down in his lap, scraping against his jeans which are still sitting just barely low enough on his hips for this to work.

“Come for me,” Derek pants. “Kiss me.”

“Okay,” Stiles gasps. “Okay.” Stiles’s tongue is in his mouth and he tastes like the pizza Erica brought with her to the pack meeting and Stiles. He tastes like Stiles and that’s the best thing Derek’s ever had. He could drink in that flavor every day for the rest of his life and never get tired of it.

He swallows down the “ngh” Stiles makes as he comes all over them both, twisting in Derek’s arms like nine thousand volts are shooting through his body. He wraps his free arm tight around Stiles’s back to make sure he doesn’t writhe right off his lap and fall to the floor. Once he’s sure he’s secure, thrusts up hard, almost violently.

Stiles takes it, laughing a little against his lips. Derek thinks he hears him say “Fuck yeah, that’s it.” He can’t be sure because there’s a lot of white noise roaring in his ears right now.

It turns to a wordless shriek in his brain as he comes, bucking up as he falls backwards onto the bed, taking Stiles with him. The pleasure is almost pain its so sharp, but he rides it like a surfer on a wave and groans as quietly as he can manage, knowing the Sheriff isn’t far away. He’s too blissed out to know if he succeeds and maybe whites out a little. 

He comes back to himself with Stiles sprawled over him like a human blanket and his hand sticky with Stiles’s come. He shrugs and brings his hand to his mouth, sucking in his ring finger.

Wrinkling his nose, Stiles makes a disgusted noise. “Ugh. You know its gross that you do that.”

He pulls his finger out with a pop. It glistens, clean of come. He gives it a thoughtful look. “It’s just like swallowing.”

Stiles shakes his head where its pillowed on Derek’s chest. “It’s really not. I can’t figure out why but it’s just not.”

“Consider it a wolf thing.”

“Like scent marking?”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “Go with that.”

“You don’t scent mark though.”

“Nope.”

“You’re just weird.”

“You like it though.”

Stiles grins at him and scoots forward to give him a soft kiss. “Yeah. I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been informed that I should put my tumblr somewhere? So, um, I'm [dancinbutterfly](http://dancinbutterfly.tumblr.com/) and sometimes I flail when I find pictures and stuff that's relavent to my verses.


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